


F-ck the fixing

by LaurelSilver



Series: Victimised [26]
Category: Hollywood Undead (Band)
Genre: Drug Use, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gen, M/M, Manipulation, Medical Abuse, Past Torture, Rehabilitation, Whumptober 2020, discussion of domestic abuse, medical neglect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 09:47:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27468991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurelSilver/pseuds/LaurelSilver
Summary: "I need a dose, man, f-ck the fixing,"Johnny 3 Tears, Medicine.A man, soft and effeminate, brings a larger, unconscious man into rehab and checks him in. Soft, effeminate man is very concerned about large, unconscious man, but doesn’t know where large, unconscious man has been or what large, unconscious man has taken to get himself into this state.  Soft, effeminate man has been beaten recently and sports a clean black eye. Large, unconscious man is a mess, with mysterious injuries. Large, unconscious man wakes up and starts threatening soft, effeminate man. Soft, effeminate man cowers and pouts but is clearly used to the threats and violence from large, now conscious man. Large, now conscious man who doesn’t know where he is, how long he’s been here, or who has been seduced into completely sympathising with soft, effeminate domestic abuse victim.
Relationships: Matthew Busek | Da kurlzz & George Ragan | Johnny 3 Tears, Matthew Busek | Da kurlzz/George Ragan | Johnny 3 Tears
Series: Victimised [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/910587
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	F-ck the fixing

**Author's Note:**

> NAMES ARE USEFUL:  
> Johnny/Jonathan Tritear/George Ragan: Johnny 3 Tears  
> Matty/Alexis St Claire: Da Kurlzz
> 
> Just to be very clear;  
> 1\. I have not done, nor do I have any intention of doing, anything described in this fic. This fic is pure fiction.  
> 2\. I don't think Matty has done, or has any intention of doing, anything described in this fic.  
> 3\. I do not encourage or condone anything described in this fic. This fic is pure fic. Recreating this fic, or anything similar, is illegal and immoral and very fucked up.  
> 4\. You are not obliged to read, finish reading if you start, or comment/kudos if you finish. 
> 
> Reiterated warnings;  
> This fic contains medical abuse and medical neglect, as well as discussion of domestic abuse.

Johnny had thought there could be no wall more miserable than the warehouse wall yet here he was, glaring into the white paint. It stared back like it couldn’t care less how insanely plain it was, which of course it didn’t. It is a wall, and walls do not care.

At least the bed under him was comfortable enough. Sure, the mattress was so thin he could feel every slat of the bed frame under his back, but it was warm and that was all he wanted. The blanket was pulled up to his chest, his arms pulled out like a dolly, and an IV was clinging into the back of his hand. The bag on the hook above him was almost empty and whatever was in it wasn’t strong enough to numb the pain across his body. His muscled ached, his skin buzzed, his eyes itched but his arms were too tired and heavy to lift up and rub them.

Johnny looked around, picking out everything but the white walls and the white ceiling and the white bedding. It hurt to lift his head, it hurt to turn his head, it hurt to stare into the white, it hurt to close his eyes and stare into the black. It hurt to breathe.

The room was almost barren. Johnny lay on a bed that couldn’t be very high off the floor, which surprised him with a thin blue carpet. A short dresser stood next to him, the hook of his drip sat on its top. A large green button hung off the side with a little stick figure wearing a hat and skirt printed on. Three tightly rolled white towels sat in the top drawer. The remaining two drawers were empty. A table on wheels sat at the end of the bed, covering his feet, and Johnny could see that some papers sat on the table top but couldn’t see what they were. A plastic beaker sat by them, full of a dark orange juice.

Johnny tried again to lift his hand but couldn’t manage any higher than two inches. The IV’s catheter was like a heavy plastic butterfly clinging to his hand, pinning him down. It seemed to wriggle every time Johnny moved his fingers, its spindly legs burrowed under his skin and stretching into his veins.

Johnny took a deep breath and sighed. It was meant to be a shout for help, but the cry dried up in his throat. His long exhale seemed to echo in the empty room and float back to him. The orange juice stared at him from his feet.

Johnny lolled his head to the side and stared at the door, which was of course painted white. There was no handle on the inside. There was no window. There wasn’t even a medical band around Johnny’s wrist. It was the weird mix of a prison and a hospital that could only be rehab.

The door opened, but no doctor or nurse peered through. Not even a nosy cleaner or a lost visitor.

Matty stepped in and closed the door after him. He was dressed different, in light wash jeans and a pale pink shirt that made him look far brighter than it should. His hair was tied back in a messy bun and a pair of thin-framed glasses perched on his nose, doing nothing at all to cover the black eye. A bouquet of flowers hung from his hand, long lavender and drooping leaves that let their smell sit heavy on the air.

“Hi,” Matty breathed, and a nervous smile pulled at his face, “Nurse Bea said you’d wake up today but I wasn’t sure but then this cleaner guy said that Nurse Bea just knows these things like a sixth sense and he was super sure she was right so I thought I’d get some flowers just in case she was right and even if she wasn’t you’d still wake up to some flowers and that’s nice right?”

Johnny stared at Matty. Matty’s voice was soft, his usual growl lost in an effeminate lilt, almost an anxious whine lifting Matty’s voice to something kind.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Johnny said. Or tried to say, and only succeeded in choking a series of sharp syllables.

“They said you were super dehydrated,” Matty twittered on, and he lurched forward to the bed. He towered over Johnny as he put the flowers down under the table, sending petals over the bedding, and picked up the juice.

Johnny let Matty pour the dark liquid straight down his throat. It wasn’t juice but a dilute drink with nowhere near enough water in it. The harsh liquid stung Johnny’s tongue.

Matty was still chattering over him but was talking far too fast for Johnny to hear what he was saying. Johnny stared up into that black eye, the previous pride twisting into caution.

Johnny had been too tired to gloat at the time, but Matty had been taunting Johnny for what felt like the whole day, sat just out of reach. He’d pressed the button for Johnny’s shock collar at random. He’d dove forward to punch at Johnny’s legs and stomach and dove back again, grinning like it was some great game. He’d kept tossing a baggie of coke, almost a whole two grams, into Johnny’s reach, and fetching it a short while after Johnny’s threw it away from him.

Johnny hadn’t taken the coke, but he waited. As Matty dove forward with a little too much confidence, Johnny grabbed him by the hair and sucker punched with all the strength he’d had left. Matty had flailed backwards and rolled away, coke and remote abandoned on the floor. He’d laid there for several minutes, making zero attempts to tend to himself, no compress, not even a look in a mirror at the damage.

Johnny should have been more suspicious that he wasn’t punished for his punch. Two days later, Matty gave him pasta to eat and Johnny had dozed off far quicker than he usually did, warmed by the thought of having injured Matty back just once. And he woke up here.

The beaker emptied and Matty put it down. The plastic was stained an unfortunate brown colour with use.

“Is that better?” Matty cupped Johnny’s face, still speaking in that lilt.

“Stop touching me,” Johnny said.

Matty pulled away and pouted, fucking _pouted_. He sat on the edge of the bed, his knees pulled up in front of him at the low height, and folded his hands in front of him. “Are you mad at me?”

“Am I?” Johnny spluttered at him, “Am I – what the fuck do you think, asshole?”

“Hey, hey,” Matty leant over Johnny, and his little pout was stretching into a smirk, “You gotta calm down. Nurse Bea doesn’t believe me that I fell. She keeps saying I should call the cops. She says rehabs for survivors, not abusers.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Bea wanted to strap you down and send me off to a support group for abuse victims, but I keep telling her I just fell. I don’t think she believes me.”

Matty was watching Johnny through his eyelashes as the words sunk into Johnny’s head and swam slowly into sense. A man, soft and effeminate, brings a larger, unconscious man into rehab and checks him in. Soft, effeminate man is very concerned about large, unconscious man, but doesn’t know where large, unconscious man has been or what large, unconscious man has taken to get himself into this state. Soft, effeminate man has been beaten recently and sports a clean black eye. Large, unconscious man is a mess, with mysterious injuries. Large, unconscious man wakes up and starts threatening soft, effeminate man. Soft, effeminate man cowers and pouts but is clearly used to the threats and violence from large, now conscious man. Large, now conscious man who doesn’t know where he is, how long he’s been here, or who has been seduced into completely sympathising with soft, effeminate domestic abuse victim.

Johnny blinked. His head hurt.

“What did you tell them?” Johnny said.

“That I fell into a light switch,” Matty said.

“Not about that.”

“I told them we had a fight a few days ago, that you’d been out a lot and I was worried but you said I was smothering you and collaring you too tight,” Matty said, and the smirk pulled wider on his little in-jokes, on the _smothering_ and the _collaring_ , “You stormed out, and came home completely off your head. You collapsed and I brought you here.”

“How long?”

“Three days.”

“Who else knows I’m here?”

“Nobody. You got mad last time I told people you had to go to rehab. I don’t like it when you’re mad at me.”

 _Don’t piss me off then_ , Johnny wanted to say, but bit it down. “Where am I?”

“Little Hedgehog Rehabilitation Centre,” Matty said.

“The _where_?”

“I know it’s a little further away than your last place,” Matty said, “But I thought you’d like the change of scenery. Also, you’re banned from the last one. Too many holes in the wall.”

Johnny knew that was complete bullshit. “How long do I have to stay here?”

“Well,” Matty sighed, and lay himself on Johnny’s chest, “I booked you in for a week but the reception girl said that you could sign yourself out as soon as you woke up if you wanted to.”

“Really?” Johnny said. Matty’s touch was burning his skin, “That seems short.”

“Yeah, but no one can book you in for treatment without your consent. If you want to stay longer, get a little better, that’s fine. If not, this place worked out cheaper than the hospital.”

Johnny huffed a laugh. “I get to choose?”

“Of course?” Matty looked up at him, voice pitchy as if he was truly genuinely shocked by the question.

“Get off me,” Johnny said. He tried to push Matty away, but only succeeded in making a vague shooing motion in Matty direction, “It hurts.”

Matty sighed. He picked up the little stack of paperwork and climbed over Johnny and wedged himself into the corner against the wall, laid against Johnny’s side. He held up the paperwork and let Johnny read the name “Jonathan Tritear” checked in by “Alexis St Claire: domestic partner” three days earlier.

Johnny tried to take it but Matty pulled it closer like a book he was eager to finish. Johnny couldn’t have held the paper up anyway, fingers numb and barely reacting to his orders to curl and scratch.

“Patient is unconscious,” Matty read aloud, “Residue of cocaine found in his mouth, especially on the gums. Methamphetamines found in bloodstream, injection marks inside left elbow, although most are old with only one appearing to have been made recently.

“Patient is severely malnourished and dehydrated. Patient bears many unusual injuries, see diagrams A through C.

“Patient’s Temporary Competent Person, listed on form B, confirms Patient has a history of drug abuse but has not seen Patient in several weeks and does not know where the injuries came from.

“Patient has a high risk of developing a dependency on painkillers. Only to be administered on low dosage if Patient is in extreme distress.”

Johnny blinked at the papers. The words, large but understandable, swam in his head.

The food Matty had given him, pasta with a thick, dry sauce, had been drugged with cocaine. Then, Matty injected him with meth. The tests probably didn’t show _when_ the drugs were taken, and even if it could why would they bother with that extra step? Johnny was clearly a mess and his soft, worried partner said he had a history of drug abuse. No need to waste time confirming that.

“Who’s my Tem…” Johnny took a deep breath and tried to force the words to string together in his mouth like they were in his brain, “Person?”

“Temporary Competent Person?” Matty said, “Me. I brought you in.”

“When do you stop?”

“Now, I think. Unless you show that you can’t make decisions. Wanna test that?”

“What?”

“You want one kiss or two?”

“ _What_?”

Matty was smiling up at him, his malicious smirk that melted right into his soft gay-boy routine. A lopsided, easy, lazy smile that suited him. His hand was playing with the collar of his shirt like a nervous tic, and one finger was stroking down his throat. The finger tapped a couple of times as Johnny looked at it and continued to stroke and Johnny got the message.

“Three,” Johnny said.

Matty leant hard on Johnny’s side and sent a shock of pain down through Johnny’s skin. The pressure built, stroking down Johnny’s hip as Matty shifted to reach.

Matty’s lips pressed to Johnny’s, chaste and quick, and a second time. “Fucking geek,” Matty said, and kissed him a third time for a second longer. His lips were dry and left the taste of stale cigarettes on Johnny’s.

Johnny stared as Matty settled himself back against the wall. A chain hung from Matty’s neck and Johnny fingered it, pulling the tag out from between them. A butterfly sat carved into the metal, wings folded back in flight, antennae reaching up.

“Do you want it back?” Matty said.

“No, you wear it,” Johnny said. Maybe if one of the guys saw him in it, or even saw him dressed like this, they’d have questions.

But would they even see him? Little Hedgehog Rehab was so far away from home that Johnny hadn’t heard of it. So far away from home that no one could come looking for him. The only people here were the staff, who thought his name was Jonathan and only knew him through Matty’s descriptions.

“What did you tell them?” Johnny said.

“I told you,” Matty said, “We had a fight-”

“Not that!” Johnny threw a hand up to grip Matty’s arm, “You’ve been talking to them while I was asleep. What did you say to them?”

“Nothing!” Matty cried out, his hands up to protect his face, “Nothing, I promise!”

Even afraid, his voice was pitched up. He shrank into the wall, in the perfect position for Johnny to punch and shove and beat into nothing.

Which was exactly what he wanted. Exactly what he needed. Exactly what would fit the little narrative he’d fed to the nurses; that Johnny angry and violent and abusive towards the soft, sweet man who was just concerned about him, just wanted him to be okay.

Johnny let go. Matt was watching him through his fingers, his black eye shining in the light.

Johnny had to think quickly. He forced himself onto his side with a long groan, and Matty shrank tighter against the wall as Johnny had to lean on him. Their noses were pressed together and Johnny’s vision was filled with arrogant blue.

“Are we being watched?” Johnny murmured.

“No,” Matty murmured back, “But there’s a microphone behind the Nurse Call button. Nurse Bea told me to say ‘umbrella’ if I wanted her to come remove me and sedate you.”

“Thought I wasn’t allowed sedatives.”

“Nurse Bea’s totally ready to put you down and call it an accident. So, best behaviour for Bea, yeah?”

“What the fuck did you tell her?”

“Not a whole lot, actually,” Matty murmured. His distinctive growl had returned in his low tones, “She’s the vicious type. She probably sees a lot of cases like Jonathan and Alexis.”

“Except our case isn’t what she thinks. She’s gonna kill me and you were the one abusing me.”

“She won’t kill you. She wants you to suffer for hurting me.”

Johnny balked, and Matty shushed him just before Johnny could start yelling his fury.

“Anything you say to her, she won’t believe,” Matty whispered, “Even if you tell her you’re so sorry for hurting me, abusers go through spells of being kind and apologetic and trying to win people back on their side. She’s told me all about it. She won’t believe anything you say. Kiss me.”

“What?”

“She’s heard that we’re whispering, and she heard a shushing. Kiss me.”

“ _What_?!”

Matty pressed his mouth to Johnny’s and sighed. Johnny froze up in alarm as the tobacco-stained lips rubbed against his for several seconds in a firm mash.

The door opened behind Johnny. Panic pulled Johnny’s hand to Matty’s side. He was suddenly aware he was only wearing a shirt that reached his hips, probably meant to be a nightshirt on a smaller man but left Johnny’s bare ass hanging out, pointed right at the newcomer.

Matty ran a hand up Johnny’s arm to cup his head and lean closer into the kiss. He moaned a little as Johnny cautiously returned the kiss.

The door closed, and they were alone again. Johnny pulled away from Matty and tugged on the blanket, trying to cover himself. The scratchy fabric was caught under Matty.

“Next time I tell you kiss me,” Matty hissed, “Fucking do it.”

“Gimme my blanket,” Johnny said.

Matty rolled his eyes and twisted to pull the blanket out from underneath him. He sat up and tucked it around Johnny’s back.

“So I can leave today?” Johnny said, loud enough for the microphone to hear him.

“Theoretically, yes,” Matty said, his lilt sweet and gentle, “But I’m not sure you can physically walk just yet.”

Matty lay back down, his nose an inch from Johnny’s. His breath smelt of tobacco and red meat. He smiled and murmured; “Don’t forget, if you seem incapable of making decisions I’ll be your Competent Person again. And if I’m not available, it’ll have to be Nurse Bea.”

“What are you saying?” Johnny hissed.

“That decisions detrimental to your health can be overruled. Decisions like leaving early.”

“So I can’t actually leave?”

“Not just that, but trying could get you permanently institutionalised. In a strange place, under a false name, where no one will ever find you. Any attempt to convince someone of who you really are would be dismissed as the ramblings of a madman.”

“But,” Johnny breathed several times, “I’m famous. You can’t mistake these tattoos, if someone just looked up George Ragan they’d know I’m telling the truth.”

“Maybe in a decent hospital. Don’t worry, I already picked one out. Middle of nowhere, hires rejected nurses, more suicides than recoveries. You’ll hate it.”

“I don’t… Why… Please don’t.”

“Johnny, you can’t be trusted with freedom. You turn to drink and drugs. You wreck yourself. You do stupid things. You get arrested.”

“And I’ll tell them things.”

“You’ll be too drunk not to.”

“So just kill me. Don’t gotta pay for rehab or an institute, just kill me.”

Matty huffed a laugh and kissed him again.

Johnny jerked his head back away from him. “And you don’t gotta do that shit either.”

Matty’s hand was firm on Johnny’s shoulder. The squeeze itched.

“Let go of me,” Johnny said, loud enough for the microphone to hear, “You’re hurting me, let go!”

Matty dragged Johnny back up to face him. “They won’t believe that,” he whispered, “You’re trying to make me look the bad guy, and they already know I’m not.”

“But you are!” Johnny cried, “You’re hurting me! You hurt me!”

“You sold your body for drugs. Of course you hurt.”

Johnny sank into the stack of lumpy pillows with a long sigh. Pinprick tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. There was no denying it; he sold his body for drugs. He followed Matty to the middle of nowhere, to a creepy warehouse with blood-stained concrete and a literal fucking torture chair, for cocaine. He let Matty burn him and beat him and cut him for cocaine and acid and alcohol. He’d got on his fucking knees and begged Matty for a fix.

Matty’s hand was rubbing up and down his arm. His touch reminded Johnny of a snake, writhing and twisting over itself, its plump body refusing to settle, fangs ready to unsheathe and bite if Johnny moves wrong, if Johnny makes it feel unsafe on its precarious platform.

“Why didn’t you just kill me?” Johnny whined again. His voice was almost completely muffled by the pillow reaching over his face like a foul-smelling claw.

“I’d miss you,” Matty said in his lilt.

“What?”

“I’d miss you if you died,” Matty said again.

Johnny leant back and cast a glance at the button. He couldn’t see a microphone or where it would pick up sound from, but there was such a mess of wires and tape it could be anywhere. The cover looked like it had taken more than a few beatings before, hanging together with a mix of parcel tape, clear tape, electrical tape and a couple of prayers.

Johnny let himself land on his back with a grunt. Matty climbed over him, straddling his waist and lying on his chest. Johnny could feel the blisters there flatten under Matty’s weight and groaned, the pain sweeping out and biting down into his skin.

“I’d miss you,” Matty said again, “Nurse Bea says it’s normal to get suicidal thoughts when you’re in rehab. It’s the withdrawal and the break in routine. You’ll be okay.”

“Does Nurse Bea say anything I’m gonna like?” Johnny grunted.

Matty giggled, fucking _giggled_ , and leant in for another kiss. He stayed laid tight against Johnny’s chest, their noses pressed together, their lips three millimetres apart, their breaths intermingling. 

“No, she doesn’t,” Matty murmured, “She’s completely on my side. And you’re not gonna convince her about anything. Not the warehouse, not your real name, nothing.”

“But why?” Johnny whispered back. His eyes gave up and tears dripped down his cheeks to his ears, “Why am I here? Why not just kill me and dump me?”

“Because I’d miss you. I mean that.”

“Then why let me go?”

“Because I’d kill you eventually,” Matty whispered, and his eyes stared hard into Johnny’s, “You can’t survive much longer in there. I had to either nurse you back to health and start all over again, over and over until you died, or give you up.”

“So this is you giving me up?”

“Yeah. I never wanted to kill you. I wanted to help you. I wanted to make you so afraid of hard drugs that you’d live clean.”

Johnny snorted. “You know you’ve fucked that up.”

“What?”

“I’m gonna be on best behaviour. Not a word to Bea. Not to anybody. In three nights, they let me go, and I’m getting together the hardest high I can scrape and steal. I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die in pain, and I’m gonna die free.”

“You melodramatic motherfucker,” Matty said, full volume.

“What?”

“You melodramatic motherfucker,” Matty said again, remembering his lilt this time.

“ _What_?”

“It’s normal to have suicidal thoughts-”

“I’m not having suicidal thoughts!” Johnny yelled.

Footsteps came running up the corridor outside. Johnny grabbed Matty and pulled him close, burying his face in Matty’s shoulder. The door opened.

“Don’t leave me here,” Johnny whimpered into Matty’s shirt. It smelt musty, left in the back of the wardrobe to only be worn for this little act of his, “Please don’t leave me here, I’m so sorry, please don’t leave me.”

Matty patted his head. He chatted something with a woman as Johnny pretended to cry, sharp chokes and long whines. The door closed and they were alone again.

“You gotta be more careful,” Matty said, still in his lilt, “You gotta control yourself.”

“It’s hard,” Johnny said, and leant back into his pillow. His skin seemed to groan under the bandages, and Johnny swore he felt some tear with the strain of healing and moving, “It all hurts so much.”

“What happened to you?” Matty said. His hands came together just above Johnny’s chest, smirk smiling a warning. _You say anything I don’t like, and I’ll hit you. You know you’ll scream. I’ll scream, and the nurses’ll come running in here sedate you and save me. Then I’ll come back tomorrow to do it all again._

“I don’t remember,” Johnny said.

Matty’s fingers dipped to brush Johnny’s sternum. The pain tingled and danced in its own little warning. “You don’t remember?”

“I think…” Johnny sighed, “There was a man. I knew him. I trusted him. He said he’d give me coke even though I didn’t have any money. He’d let me pay another way. I thought he just wanted a blowie or some shit. But he gave the coke and whipped me. And…” Johnny shuddered, and the tears fell thick and fast, “And I still wanted get coke from him. I was fine with it. So long as he gave me coke I was fine with it.”

Matty pressed a hand to Johnny’s face. “Tell me about the man.”

“What?”

“Tell me about him,” Matty said again, “Don’t you want the cops to catch him? Before he hurts someone else?”

Johnny stared at him. There was a quote from Catch-22 that had struck a chord with Johnny before, but it escaped him now.

“Tell me,” Matty urged. His voice was sweet and desperate, but his eyes and smirk were wide and wild with warning.

“He was an ugly motherfucker,” Johnny said. Might as well enjoy this. “Gross little pervert. Nasty, nasally, growly voice, like a really bad Batman impression. Pale. Didn’t brush his hair.”

Matty scowled at the last quip. The rest he’d been expecting. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, actually. I caught him beating off once and he was strangling himself with his belt.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep. Weirdest O-face I’ve ever seen too, I think I’m traumatised.”

Matty had to actively steel himself not to punch Johnny in the chest anyway. He took a deep breath. “You were so brave.”

“I was stupid,” Johnny said, “I let this asshole lead me away, even though I knew we were going somewhere suspicious. I left behind the people I loved. I did terrible things to get this man to keep drugging me up.”

“And you survived it. All you have to do now is heal and live.”

Johnny gave a long sigh. Lavender filled his lungs. He pressed a hand over Matty’s. There was some feeling returning in Johnny’s palms, and Matty’s skin was warm. Matty thumb brushed a soft arc against Johnny’s cheek.

“How do I get out of here, Matty?” Johnny murmured, “Tell me. Tell me and I’ll do it.”

Matty smiled and kissed Johnny again. “Stay silent,” he murmured into Johnny’s mouth, “Not a word to anyone, and I’ll take you home.”

“And then what?”

“And then life goes on. You stay clean, or don’t.”

“And you keep on killing.”

“You can visit. Help. Or just let off some steam.”

Johnny jerked his jaw out of Matty’s grip. “Get off me. You’re heavy, get off.”

Matty slumped against the wall again. The papers crinkled under him and he pulled them out, the sheaf disorganised in his hand. He picked through them and smoothed them down on Johnny’s chest, biting back a laugh as Johnny hissed at the touch.

“You wanna see em?” Matty said. The cute little voice he was putting on was starting to get on Johnny’s nerves.

“See what?” Johnny said.

“Your diagrams,” Matty held one of the images up.

A sketch of an androgynous body was printed on the sheet. It had been drawn over in pencil: lines down the inner thighs, hatching on the chest, a little ‘X’ in the throat. Symbols surrounded the body, some of them shorthand for Johnny’s injuries, most of them question marks.

“No,” Johnny pushed Matty’s arm away, “I don’t want to think about it.”

“Wanna see the others?”

“No, I don’t!”

Matty held up a second diagram of the androgynous body’s back, pencilled in whip welts criss-crossing over his back. The welts seemed to inflame on Johnny’s skin, and he took the papers and threw them across the room.

Matty gasped and buried his face in his hands. Johnny sat frozen for several seconds as the papers fluttered to the floor. He expected footsteps to come running up the corridor again but only silence sat there, unbothered by Johnny’s outburst.

“I don’t want to think about it,” Johnny said again.

Matty sighed and climbed over Johnny. He slid off the bed and seemed to rise, towering over Johnny. He bent down and picked up the closest of the papers.

“I have to go soon,” Matty said, patting the papers as if they could ever look tidy again, “I only get fifteen minutes. It’s gonna be your lunchtime soon, though. It’s Irish stew. I don’t know what that is, though.”

Johnny could vaguely remember having Irish stew at a British pub on tour. He remembered carrot and potato and a single, scraggly piece of meat in a thick broth and barely toasted bread. It hadn’t tasted amazing but it had been cold outside and Johnny had been hungover still so the bowl was a ladle of warm heaven.

“I like Irish stew,” Johnny said. He was tired and his chest was burning from touch and cuddles.

“Good,” Matty said, and he put the papers on the bedside cabinet, the crumpled corner hanging over the edge.

“They’re gonna fall.”

“They won’t. That’s just in case you change your mind.”

Johnny sniffed and bit back the urge to smack them onto the floor again.

A firm knock sounded at the door. Johnny and Matty both jumped, and Matty dove forward to force a kiss against Johnny’s mouth.

“That’s your time, Mr. St Claire!”A woman called.

“I’m coming!” Matty called back.

“No you ain’t,” Johnny murmured, “I ain’t got my hands on your neck.”

Matty giggled, fucking _giggled_ , and gave Johnny a smack that made him flinch. “Not in rehab, Johnny!”

Johnny laughed, and even thought it burned it felt good to laugh.

Matty stood, and dragged Johnny’s hand after him as he stepped away like he wanted to pull Johnny out the door with him. A little pout pulled on his smirk until it looked cute and almost flirty. His shirt was a little rumpled, some hair had fallen out of his bun and hung over his face, his glasses were still perched in place. Johnny could see how anyone would think Matty was the innocent party. Homicidal, cannibalistic maniacs; they look just like the rest of us.

Their fingers parted and Johnny let his arm drop, flopped out over the edge of the bed. Matty slinked through the door, still smiling at him until the door finally closed, leaving Johnny alone in the white silence.

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a 500 word flashfic for Whumptober, but I have no self-control.
> 
> I have no idea if you can actually cook cocaine into a pasta sauce, and I'm not about to buy and cook cocaine into a pasta sauce to find out.  
> Yes, Matty is leaning very heavily into a stereotype of soft gay men here, but none of those nurses or cleaners are ever gonna recognise him.  
> I don't know if there is a Little Hedgehog Rehabilitation Centre, I made it up. It's intended to be in North California.  
> A lot of the discussions of abuse comes from or is inspired by Why Does He Do That? by Lundy Bancroft. A book I definitely recommend everyone to have a read through as it goes through a broad range of abuse from physical abuse to gaslighting to the unexpected 'benefits' the abuser may get from their actions. I read a pdf of it but I don't have the link anymore, but I'm sure it wouldn't take much digging to find it.  
> Diagram A is Johnny's front, Diagram B is Johnny's back, Diagram C is internal damage covering dehydration and stress to Johnny's organs and such.
> 
> The 'Temporary Competent Person' is the person who makes decisions on the behalf of the person in need of medical attention but is temporarily unable to make decisions, usually because of an accident or, in Johnny's case, unconsciousness.  
> Sometimes people become permanently incapable of making decisions, usually because of brain damage. In the UK a person is considered 'without capacity' if they are unable to retain more than three pieces of information for thirty seconds in order to think them over and make a decision. People who lose capacity are able to gain it back by a number of means, including medication, therapy, or even by simplifying the means of making decisions.  
> However, carers are able to sometimes overrule dangerous decisions, such as actions of intentional self-harm or attacking people. Checking out of rehab, while not the best idea, wouldn't actually be a detrimental or dangerous decision and shouldn't be overruled, but Little Hedgehog is intended to be a bad and neglectful institution.  
> Other signs Little Hedgehog is a bad instituion: unused towels just there for show, plain and prison-like rooms, damaged equipment (the call button, the stained plastic beaker), ill-fitting clothes, poor quality bedding, Johnny wakes up alone even though the staff knew he would be waking up, no one comes to check on him even after knowing he was awake, Johnny is being listened in on without his knowledge or consent.
> 
> None of this is intended to deter you from seeking medical help for yourself or a loved one. Stay vigilant and make sure you/your loved one is getting looked after as they deserve.
> 
> That being said, be sure to take any medications you need to, and drink plenty of water. Never swallow pills dry as it can damage your throat.


End file.
